


Shot through the Heart

by Run_of_the_mill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Beck is weird, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Not an Unhappy Ending, Peter isn't about to let Beck walk all over him, author does not condone underage sex, post ffh, slight ffh canon-divergence, the ethics of teenage Peter with adult Beck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Run_of_the_mill/pseuds/Run_of_the_mill
Summary: Peter isn't about to let Mr. Beck walk all over him. If he wants to frame Peter for murder, then he'll have to pay the price. With Mrs. Stark's help, Peter releases a video of his own. And, if Mr. Beck is still alive, as Peter suspects, then let's see how he deals with this fiery poop stack.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 15
Kudos: 107





	Shot through the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for this fandom. Be gentle. Also, importantly, the characters' opinion do not necessarily reflect mine.

It was fucking ridiculous. He'd have never thought Peter would have it in him to pull shit like this. The kid was so fucking innocent and naïve and just sugar and spice and all things nice.

But here they were.

**_Mysterio: Hero or Predator_ **

_As we all know, a few weeks ago, young Peter Parker was outed as Spiderman. The revelation came on the tails of a serious accusation. Seemingly, Mr. Parker had orchestrated the cold-blooded murder of hero, Mysterio. It turns out that Spiderman may have had a reason for said murder. See the following video._

Their first time together.

EDITH had recorded everything.

Except.

Except.

_Peter_.

The video was as doctored as the one Quentin’s own team had released. It sounded less like Peter and Quentin having sex and more like Mysterio molesting an underage Spiderman.

Back then, Quentin had dragged a drunk Peter to bed and undressed him for his comfort. The suit was a ‘little tight around the old web-shooter’, according to Peter. In the doctored footage, Peter was drunk out of his mind and whimpering for Quentin to let him go and stop undressing him.

Back then, Peter had grabbed Quentin’s suit to bring him closer. In the doctored footage, Peter was trying, feebly, to push Quentin away, begging him not to ‘do this, _please_ ’.

Back then, Peter had moaned and begged for more when Quentin had fucked him. In the doctored footage, he whined and ‘ _nononono, please, no'._

It pissed Quentin off. That memory, the time they'd spent together, their bed. All of that was meant for them and only them. It had been a sacred moment for Quentin and he'd been so sure that sweet, sweet Peter had felt the same.

But here they were.

***

Peter wrinkled his nose at the TV. CNN was running the stupid story again. Mysterio was now a goddamn child predator. And, while it brought him some deep satisfaction to see Mr. Beck's name dragged through the mud like Peter’s had been a few weeks ago, the means didn’t sit well with him.

“Even if he didn’t rape you,” reasoned Mrs. Stark, “the fact remains that you were sixteen and what he did to you is called statutory rape.”

“What he did to me,” repeated Peter, frowning at the phrasing. “You and May and Happy. You all say the same thing. It’s like- like you’re convincing yourself that doctored footage is the real thing. You saw the real video, didn’t you? I wasn’t exactly being super passive while he fucked me. I wanted it. It was great for a first time.”

“Peter,” sighed Mrs. Stark. “He was an adult. He should have said no. He should have been a grownup.”

“You keep treating me like a _child_ , Mrs. Stark,” complained Peter. “I know I’m young. But I’m not a baby. I know what sex is. Even back then, I knew what sex was. I wanted it. With him. ‘Cause he was sweet. And big. And handsome. And- And- If I hadn’t wanted it, I could have broken his spine. You _know_ I could have.”

“That’s not the point, Peter,” said Mrs. Stark.

“That is _exactly_ the point,” argued Peter. Suddenly, he was over this. This conversation was going to go the same way it always did. Be it with Mrs. Stark, May, or Happy. They all insisted that Mr. Beck had taken advantage of poor, defenseless Peter. Never mind that Peter could’ve thrown Mr. Beck across the room with a single hand. Never mind that Peter had left a ton more bruises on Mr. Beck's skin than the man had on Peter’s. Never mind that Peter had pushed Mr. Beck down the very next morning, when he was sober and horny, and ridden him till they'd both reached mind-numbing completion.

_Fuck, Peter. **Fuck**. You'll be the death of me, baby._

Peter got up and left the living room, not minding Mrs. Stark's requests for him to stay and talk this through with her. He was leaving in huff, like a child. Well, what the hell, right? If Mrs. Stark was going to treat him like a child, then Peter was entitled to act like one. He ran off to hide in Morgan’s room.

“Pete!” said Morgan, smiling widely at him. She put her stuffed doggy down and jumped off the bed to cage his legs in. Peter almost toppled over from the force at which she hurled herself at him. It was sheer experience that kept him standing upright. Morgan liked hugs.

They sat down and started tinkering with one of Peter’s many little projects, the ones that kept him from dying of boredom, cooped up in the Starks' cabin while they waited for Mysterio's next move. Because he would have a next move. Peter was sure of that. He wasn’t dead, no matter what everyone else seemed to believe. That was the only reason why he’d consented to allowing Mrs. Stark and her PR team usage of his and Mr. Beck’s night.

Peter wanted Mr. Beck to suffer.

Tit for tat.

_Are you coming Peter? Come. Come for me, baby._

_…_

_Honey, you’re killing me. If you keep doing that- Oh, **yesss.** Peter. Peter **. Peter**. **I'm coming.**_

“Are you sad, Peter?” asked Morgan, breaking him out of his daydreams. He looked up at her innocent face, immediately feeling guilty for the turn his thoughts had taken. This wasn’t the sort of thing one should remember around innocent children.

“No,” said Peter. “No, I'm not sad Morgan.”

“But you had a fight with Mommy,” said Morgan. She wasn’t asking. She was saying. She must’ve been listening.

“Morgan, you’re not supposed to eavesdrop,” said Peter. Morgan gave him a mischievous smile, one that made Peter’s heart squeeze because of how much it looked like Mr. Stark’s.

“Sorry,” she said. She sounded about as sorry as Mr. Stark had ever sounded when he was apologizing thoughtlessly. Peter scrunched his nose at her and ruffled her hair. She protested but leaned into the touch. Over the weeks of lying low in the Starks' cabin, Peter and Morgan had grown extremely close. It was like having a little sister. One that thought Peter was the coolest thing since sliced bread. And Mr. Stark.

“I'm okay, Morg,” said Peter. She narrowed her eyes at him, not believing him for a single second.

“Mommy said a big man hurt you,” said Morgan. “Big men are soooo bad. The big purple one took Daddy. Is your big man gonna take you too? It’s the one with the fishbowl on TV, isn’t it? Don’t worry, Pete. I'll wear one of Daddy’s suits and I’ll protect you. Mr. Fishbowl won’t see it coming.” She jumped to her feet and mimicked shooting blasts from imaginary repulsors.

“Earth’s greatest defender,” said Peter, chuckling. “As long as you’re here, I got nothing to fear.”

“Exactly!” agreed Morgan.

***

“With the Starks,” said William.

“Of course, he is,” scoffed Quentin. William looked down at his tablet, avoiding Quentin’s eyes at all cost. It was a bit funny, to be honest. Most of the team had been trying to spend as little time as possible with him. The video had gotten to them even though Quentin had taken the time to explain that the audio was fake.

“Are you ever going to get it off your chest?” asked Quentin. “Or did you want to take it to your grave? You know it’s not healthy to bottle things up.” William frowned but said nothing. Probably scared of Quentin’s reaction. Quentin rolled his eyes and flopped down into his chair. “Piss off, coward.” So, William turned to leave.

“I _didn’t_ rape him,” said Quentin, just as William was reaching for the door handle. He stopped, his hand frozen halfway to the brass.

“So, the kid asked for it?” asked William. Quentin couldn’t see his face, but he imagined it looked nothing good.

“Yeah,” answered Quentin. “He held on tight. And he rode me the next day. Sober. He wanted it.”

“And you never thought,” said William, “that a grown ass man like you- full 32 years old- should’ve said no to a 16-year-old offering sex?”

“You weren’t there,” hissed Quentin through gritted teeth. “You never even came close to him. You've only ever seen him through a screen. It’s not the same thing. He touched me and- _fuck_ \- I just wanted so _bad._ **”**

“He was _sixteen_ , you ass,” said William, turning around, fury in his eyes. “ _Still_ is. You’re disgusting.”

“What would’ve changed, exactly,” asked Quentin, “if I’d waited till he was eighteen? Would he have been more grown?”

“You shouldn’t have been with him _at all,_ ” said William. “Sixteen or eighteen. Doesn’t matter. You were supposed to get EDITH and that was supposed to be _that_. How could you sleep with a kid?”

“I put my cock in his asshole,” snapped Quentin. “That’s how. You need me to give you the gay version of The Talk?”

“Fuck you,” said William, disgusted. “Fuck you, Quentin Beck. If we didn’t need your fucking tech, I’d drop your pedophile ass so quick.”

“ _I'm not a pedophile!”_ screamed Quentin. William ducked out of the room, damned near running out. Good for him. He managed to avoid getting socked in the head with one of the hotel room's various creepy dolls. They were _everywhere_ in the room. Quentin hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d decided the, aptly named, Dollhouse Room looked fun. The dolls were just fucking creepy. Soulless eyes everywhere.

“Fuck my life,” groaned Quentin. Then and there, he decided that Mysterio had been dead long enough.

Peter.

He needed to see Peter.

And maybe fuck him.

_Nnn- yeah. Oh. Oh. Yes. **Mr. Beck.**_

Yeah. Definitely fuck him.

***

Peter didn’t notice at first. He was too busy trying to make sure Morgan didn’t fall out of the web-hammock he'd woven. It was strong but Morgan couldn’t sit still. So the hammock kept swinging and Morgan kept tipping over dangerously.

But then, his Peter-Tingle went crazy.

“Morgan!” he called. She jumped at him and Peter caught her mid-air just in time for everything around them to disappear. The cabin, the lake, the surrounding woods. All of it was gone. Morgan shivered in his arms and her grip on his shirt tightened.

“Baby.” It was said gently. A warm whisper in Peter’s ear. He struck out in that general direction but his fist didn’t connect with anything.

“Getting faster, Mr. Beck,” Peter taunted. His heart was hammering in his chest, memories of trains and broken bones and guns invading his mind. But he couldn’t break down. Morgan was still in his arms.

“Peter, honey,” said Mr. Beck. He appeared a few feet away from them, leaning against a tree. God, he was still super handsome. Ugh. Peter sneered and walked in —what he hoped was— the direction of the cabin. If he got too close to the water, he was gonna trust that his Peter-Tingle would go off before he drowned himself and Morgan.

“Baby, c'mon,” said Mr. Beck. “Just give me a moment.”

“You’re the fishbowl man,” said Morgan, suddenly. She looked over Peter’s shoulder and he could picture her glaring at Mr. Beck. “You can’t have Peter, you big bad man!”

“Butt out, chibi,” snapped Mr. Beck. “The grownups are talking.”

“Pete's not a grownup,” argued Morgan. “He’s Pete. He’s super cool! Grownups are _boring_. But not Daddy. Daddy was super cool. Like Peter!” Peter heard a snort behind him.

“I like you Morgan,” chuckled Mr. Beck. Peter’s Peter-Tingle tingled. He stepped away just in time for Mr. Beck’s hand to pat the air where Morgan’s head had been. “I'm not going to infect her with my weird, Pete. It’s my personal ailment.”

“Still,” said Peter. “Keep your bloody hands off Morgan. She’s like fresh snow and you’re basically mucky yucky snow at the end of winter. Like, the kind that you’re hoping will melt pretty soon, so you can stop wearing big boots. And it’s all wet and sludgy and it’s like stepping into mush-"

“Okay,” interrupted Mr. Beck. “I get it. You're still mad. I'll release the illusion and you go put the kid in the house and we can talk.”

“Release the illusion,” said Peter, “and just go.”

“Nope,” said Mr. Beck. “Tell me you'll talk to me and I’ll release it.”

“And if I say no?” asked Peter. Mr. Beck shrugged.

“We can figure out how good I can scare the kid,” he said.

***

Too easy. The moment Quentin threatened the little girl, Peter stiffened and complied. The little kid protested. She didn’t want to leave Peter with the ‘big fishbowl man’.

“You better not take Peter,” said the little kid, hands on her hips and frown on her tiny face. It was adorable. Quentin worried he was a pedophile. But he didn’t feel aroused. She was just cute. Peter was the only one for Quentin.

“I won’t,” promised Quentin. “Not today.” He waited outside the cabin for almost thirty minutes. He was starting to get irritated and was about to go in when Peter came out.

“I got her to go nap,” explained Peter. “Whatever you want to talk about, I’m pretty sure I don’t want her to hear it. And she loves to eavesdrop.”

“Get a blanket,” said Quentin. “We can go somewhere far so she can’t hear us.”

“No way,” said Peter. “I can’t leave her unsupervised.”

“Guterman can watch her,” said Quentin. “He’s not feeding me lines, today.” Guterman stepped out of the black sedan they’d come here in. He waved at Peter. Peter was not impressed.

“No,” said Peter, again. Firmly. “I don’t know him.”

“C'mon, honey,” said Quentin, reaching for Peter's cheek. He jerked back and Quentin was forced drop his hand mid-air. “She’s safe with Guterman. He's one of the people that’s the most disgusted with me right now. I heard him call me a dirty pedophile just the other day.” Guterman paled, glancing at Quentin with this stricken expression. Funny. “No worries, Guterman. The whole world thinks I’m a predator, now. Ain’t that so, Pete?” Peter didn’t answer him. Instead, he turned to Guterman.

“If anything happens to her,” he threatened, “I will personally web all your limbs to four different horses and have them rip you apart. Just like in those historical K-dramas. Got it?”

“Yeah,” said Guterman. He gave Quentin a wide berth as he walked around them to get into the house. Peter followed him in and Quentin forced himself to stay out. It felt like he was a bad puppy that had made a mess in the house and his owner had decided that he could reflect on his behaviour _outside_.

Peter eventually came back out. He had a basket in one hand and a checkered blanket draped over the opposite arm.

“Picnic?” asked Quentin.

“I'm always hungry,” said Peter. “If I have to listen to you, I wanna be doing something with my hands that doesn’t involve throttling you to death.”

“If you'd just asked, Pete,” sighed Quentin. “I can think of so many things you could be doing with those hands.”

“I can castrate you,” said Peter.

***

Mr. Beck stilled at the threat. Then, he let out that nice little laugh of his. The one that made him sound like a giggling schoolboy. Peter liked it. It equalized them, somehow. When Mr. Beck laughed, Peter wasn’t the only young one. They found a spot some ways from the cabin and Peter spread the blanket and set the basket down. They sat down, side by side.

“Mr. Stark would’ve given me his sharpest knife, you know,” Peter pointed out. Just because. Because he needed to be reminded why Mr. Beck couldn’t be forgiven. He wasn’t disappointed. Mr. Beck’s jaw tightened and loosened twice as he worked through his anger and resentment towards Mr. Stark.

“When did you become this snide, kid?” asked Mr. Beck, a thoughtful look on his face.

“After you got me run over by a speeding train,” said Peter, without missing a beat. “Or maybe after you tried to shoot me at Tower Bridge. I don’t know. It’s one or the other.”

“Don’t,” hissed Mr. Beck. He looked angry, all of a sudden. His mood swings gave Peter whiplash sometimes. “Don’t talk like that. You sound— You sound like _him_.”

“Good,” said Peter. “Maybe you’ll think twice before tricking me, now.”

“Pete, c’mon—”

“Is there a point to this conversation, Mr. Beck?” asked Peter. His patience was running thin these days. He just wanted to go back to the cabin. Get this stupid conversation over with and swing Morgan upside-down. She’d been badgering him to try all weekend now and Peter found the prospect far more appealing than spending another second with Mr. Beck.

“Why’re you calling me ‘Mister’?” asked Mr. Beck. Now, he looked hungry. Like that morning after. It made Peter want to get naked and ride him, again. Bastard. He leaned in and put his lips against Peter’s ears. “I thought that was just for bed.”

“Boys really _do_ have a one-track mind, huh,” said Peter.

“You talk like you’re not a boy,” said Mr. Beck. One of his big, strong arms slid around Peter’s waist and, between one second and the next, he was on his back and Mr. Beck was positively devouring the side of his neck. “My brain is so _full_ of you, Pete. That video— fuck, Peter. It set me on fire. I’ve been watching it over and over. _Without_ that awful audio you added. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck,_ Pete! Just— Feel it for yourself.”

He rolled his hips down so that they met at the crotch. He was so hard, it made Peter release an involuntary moan. Mr. Beck heard it and grinned at him, triumph pasted across his features. Peter hated the sight of it. So, he pulled Mr. Beck down by the collar. He came down with an ‘oomph’ and then, they were kissing. They were making out, hot and heavy, and Peter was glad they hadn’t done this anywhere near the cabin. If Morgan had walked in on them, Peter would’ve killed Mr. Beck first, then himself.

“Legs, Pete,” gasped Mr. Beck between kisses. Back in Prague, he’d liked having Peter’s legs around his waist when they were fucking or making out.

“I might crush you,” panted Peter. “I’m still mad.”

“You won’t, honey,” said Mr. Beck. “You’re so sweet. So, fucking sweet, baby. You won’t crush me.” Just for that, Peter wrapped his legs around Mr. Beck and tightened them enough to have him cry out and slap one of Peter’s thighs through his shorts.

“Where’d your confidence go?” asked Peter, giggling at Mr. Beck’s glare. He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled Peter up by the arms and grabbed at the hems of his t-shirt.

“Careful,” warned Peter. It was one of Mr. Stark’s old AC∕DC shirts. Mrs. Stark had given the whole lot of old band and tour shirts to Peter when he’d first come to the cabin.

“Why?” asked Mr. Beck, pulling it up and off Peter and tossing it to the side. “Keepsake from Daddy? Or your uncle?”

“Daddy,” said Peter, flipping them around. One kiss, two, then three. “The foster one.” Peter’s fourth kiss landed on a bearded cheek when Mr. Beck turned his head in the shirt’s direction. He watched it, seeming livid. Like he regretted not having shredded it off Peter. Peter pinched his face between his thumb and forefinger and turned Mr. Beck back towards himself.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

***

“ _Fine,_ ” snapped Quentin. He was almost of a mind to shove Peter off him and just walk away. Even from the fucking grave, Stark was busy ruining things for him. _Fuck_. But Peter was undoing his shirt buttons and kissing his skin as it was exposed, and Stark could fucking rot in hell because Peter’s mouth was kissing the skin just above Quentin’s dick and—

“Oh yeah,” moaned Quentin. Oh fuck. How long had he been dreaming of this? Peter’s pretty little mouth stretched thin around his dick. Peter bobbing up and down his cock, sucking it like it was made of candy. Peter choking on him because he’d taken too much too fast. “Nnn, _shit_ , baby. That’s so fucking good. So fucking good.” He reached a hand down. He wanted to pull on Peter’s hair. Maybe fuck his mouth. But Peter grabbed his wrist before he was even halfway there and popped off his cock with a _nasty_ little squelch. _Fuck_.

“Not yet,” said Peter. “I can’t have you coming so quickly, can I old man?” Quentin bit his lip, holding back a growl. He gripped Peter’s hips and flipped them around, again. Quickly, he pulled Peter’s shorts and underwear off, so that he was entirely naked. Quentin was still in his pants, himself. Peter had only gotten so far as to pulling his cock out.

“Close your legs,” ordered Quentin. Fuck, what had he been _thinking_? Coming to Peter without lube. _Fucking idiot!_

“Look in the basket,” said Peter, rolling his eyes. Quentin frowned in confusion but complied.

There was no food in the basket.

Quentin was so hard.

“Pete, baby, were you hoping for something?” asked Quentin. He pulled a bottle of lube out of the basket and stared at it in wonder. There were a bunch of condoms too, whose purpose Quentin did not understand. They hadn’t used protection in Prague. Pete had been a virgin after all, and Quentin knew he, himself, was clean. He’d had a two-year dry spell before Peter. Too focused on revenge. And, alright, they should probably still have used a condom because life was a bitch sometimes. But Peter hadn’t insisted, and Quentin hadn’t wanted to leave just to buy condoms. Peter had _needed_ him so bad. It would’ve been _cruel_ of Quentin to leave.

“Wasn’t hoping,” said Peter. “You just looked like you would take the first chance you got. I thought I’d be prepared. Use the condoms too.”

“Why?” asked Quentin. “’S’not like you’ve been sleeping around.”

“How do you know?” asked Peter. That pulled Quentin up short. He stared hard at Peter, but his poker face had improved, it seemed.

“Pete, don’t do this to me,” said Quentin, sharply. “Don’t play like that. You know me. If people get in my way, I ruin them. Don’t fuck with me.” It was with great satisfaction that he watched Peter swallow slowly and nod.

“We’re still using a condom,” said Peter. He reached into the basket and pulled one out before handing it to Quentin. “I don’t know who _you’ve_ been with.”

“No one, honey,” said Quentin. The very thought of it made him want to dry-heave. Who the fuck would ever even compare to Peter, now? He was ruined for everyone else. “You’re the only one for me.”

“Sweet,” said Peter, smiling softly. “But we’re still using a condom.” Quentin huffed but nodded. What else was he supposed to do? Peter looked like he was about to walk away if he refused. It was the right thing to do, anyways. Maybe, down the line, they could get tested and Quentin could convince Peter to do bareback again. For now, he rolled the condom on and lubed his fingers up.

“C'mere, sweetheart,” said Quentin, patting his thigh. Peter went readily, kneeling above his lap. He folded himself over Quentin’s shoulder, placing soft, open-mouth kisses along the man's shoulder blade and neck. Anywhere he could reach, really. It felt good. It felt nice to have Peter all over him. Like some giant, cuddly spider. “Fucking love you, Pete.” For a moment, Peter stiffened. But it was brief and he went back to kissing Quentin.

“Pete-"

“Focus,” said Peter. He pulled Quentin’s lubed fingers to the cleft of his ass. _Focus_. Sex now. Feelings later. Quentin could do that. He used his forefinger to tease around Peter’s hole.

“You want me?” asked Quentin.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Really bad, Mr. Beck. Please?”

_You’re a_ grown _man_ , William was hissing in his ear. _You shouldn’t be accepting sex with a sixteen-year-old._ Fuck you, William. What did he know about how amazing Peter was? About how tight he felt around that first finger, like his hole had never felt a cock before? How hot and wet and perfect he felt, even when Quentin had two fingers in him? William knew nothing and, if Quentin had anything to do with it, he never would.

“Pete, honey, can I put it in?” asked Quentin. The suction was making him go crazy and Peter had his lips up against his ear, panting and moaning open-mouthed.

“Yeah, _yes,_ oh,” babbled Peter. “Please, please, _please_.” He pushed back against Quentin’s fingers, rotating his hips and fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Quentin’s higher brain functions were shutting down in favour of this. He needed to be in Peter. He needed to rut, so bad.

“Lie down, sweetheart,” said Quentin. This was their first time after so long. He needed it to be comfortable for Peter. Once Peter was on his back, Quentin lined himself up with his slippery hole. “You want this, baby?”

_He’s **sixteen** ,_ said the William-voice in his head. _It doesn’t matter that he wants it, you disgusting bastard. You_ shouldn’t _be fucking him._ But Peter nodded and wrapped his strong legs around Quentin’s waist and he was fucking _gone_.

“Hurry,” begged Peter. And hurry Quentin did. _Fuck,_ that first push. Maybe Quentin’s brain was melting out his ears. Only the tip was in and he wasn’t sure how long he’d last.

“Pete, _fuck_ ,” groaned Quentin. “Oh, nnn. So tight!”

“Y-yeah,” agreed Peter, nodding frantically. He pressed his heels in Quentin’s back, urging him to keep pushing. “M-Mr. Beck. Please, please.” Quentin didn’t need to be told again. His Peter _needed_ him. Quentin was going to oblige, for fuck's sake. He gripped Peter’s hip tightly and _pushed_.

Peter screamed.

***

Peter was so overwhelmed. He’d forgotten how good sex with Mr. Beck felt. It'd been so long since Prague. It was amazing. Peter grabbed onto Mr. Beck’s forearms, attempting to ground himself. Mr. Beck hissed in pain.

“S-Sorry,” said Peter, letting go.

“’S'okay,” said Mr. Beck. “Hurts good.” So, Peter grabbed back onto his forearms. Mr. Beck changed the angle of his thrusts and- oh, _oh_ \- Peter hadn’t known it was possible to feel even better. “Pete, touch yourself, honey.” His movements were getting frantic and Peter was close and-

“Mr. Beck-"

“Peter, Peter, Pete, _Pete-_ ”

There was a filthy kiss, a blur of pleasure, pain, pleasure, pleasure, good _, goodgoodohyesohohnnyesyes._ A scream. Peter’s scream.

“Fuck,” said Mr. Beck as he collapsed on the blanket, next to Peter. In a daze, Peter reflected that that word- fuck- was very prominent in Mr. Beck’s vocabulary. The man Peter had met in Prague was so careful. He never cussed. Maybe the man in Prague was just Guterman and this potty-mouthed not-really-adult man was the real Mr. Beck.

They lay there, panting and catching their breaths for a while. At some point, Mr. Beck's fingers had found Peter’s and they were now tangled.

“I want this,” said Mr. Beck eventually. He turned on his side to face Peter. “I want us.”

“Half of us is underage,” said Peter.

“Well,” said Mr. Beck, “half of us is already a criminal guilty of mass murder. Statutory rape isn’t that big a deal to add on top of it.” Peter chuckled. Mr. Beck wasn’t wrong.

But.

“Half of us has a hero complex,” said Peter. “Can’t be with a criminal.”

“C'mon, Pete,” said Mr. Beck. “What if I don’t kill anyone anymore? I'll just scare people. What about that?”

“Why would you scare people?” asked Peter. “What’s Mysterio’s next step?”

“No idea,” said Mr. Beck. “I guess robbing banks and spreading general mayhem. Anything to antagonize our friendly neighborhood Spiderman. Or… I could stay dead.”

“Are you blackmailing me into a relationship with you?” asked Peter, incredulously.

“You have no proof I'm alive, Pete,” said Mr. Beck. “Not even EDITH could find me. Say yes, and you can go back home to May. Have a normal Spidey-life.”

“You really _are_ blackmailing me,” said Peter. Unbelievable. He let go of Mr. Beck’s hand and started to dress, upset that he'd even stuck around long enough for Mr. Beck to make his stupid offer.

“Baby, listen,” said Mr. Beck, grabbing onto Peter and rolling them so that Peter was pinned under him. “We’re good together. We’re good, baby. I love you. So, we’re good. Just say yes and you can have your life back.” Peter took a deep breath. He’d felt sorry for Mr. Beck when he’d found out that Mr. Stark had renamed his life work BARF, then fired him for being unstable. But now, Peter was beginning to see what Mr. Stark had meant.

Mr. Beck was completely out of touch with reality.

“Get off, you ass,” hissed Peter. “Don’t make me shove you off. I'm _sixteen_ , not twenty-six. I'm not ready to settle down, yet. The answer is an emphatic _no_. I'm a _kid,_ just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Pete-"

“Get. Off.” Mr. Beck sighed but he did get off. “I'll be fine with Mrs. Stark and Morgan. So, if you want to pretend, you’re dead, go ahead Mr. Beck. I don’t care anymore. You’ve already ruined my life. I'm _not_ dedicating the rest of it to, probably, the _unhealthiest_ relationship I could possibly ever have in my entire life. The sex was good but our relationship is sh-shit!”

***

It felt like being slapped. In fact, Quentin would’ve preferred a physical slap over Peter’s total refusal to acknowledge what was between them.

“Pete-"

But Peter wasn’t listening, anymore. He got dressed in a hurry and just picked up his basket and left. His blanket stayed because Quentin was still sitting on it, shell-shocked.

Later, Quentin trudged back to the cabin, blanket over his arm. Pepper was back. Quentin could see her through the kitchen window. Guterman was standing outside, a plate of noodles in his hand.

“Pepper didn’t want me inside,” said Guterman. “Peter wanted to feed me while I waited for you.”

“Well, I’m here,” said Quentin, throwing the blanket at Guterman's face and making him drop his plate. It made a mess but neither of them moved to let either Peter or Pepper know. _Fuck_ , he was mad. His head was starting to throb with the anger and pain of Peter’s rejection. He wanted to do something bad.

Like set the cabin on fire.

“Quentin, don’t,” said Guterman. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. Trust me. It’s stupid and you'll regret it.”

“He rejected me,” hissed Quentin. “That little brat. He _rejected_ me. I can’t be the only one to suffer. He needs to get some of the pain too, Gutes.”

“ _Listen_ to me, Quentin,” insisted Guterman. “You’re angry and you’re hurting. All your decisions are going to be shit, right now. Let’s just go. You can think of something, tomorrow. Trust me, Quentin.” Quentin gritted his teeth, ready to argue again. But, something about Guterman's expression, a tightness around his eyes, made him think that the man was speaking from experience, probably.

“Trust me,” repeated Guterman.

“Fine,” said Quentin, turning on his heel. “Fine. But if I regret this, I’m gonna make you pay, Gutes.”

***

“They’re gone, Peter,” said Mrs. Stark. Peter looked out through the window and the sedan was gone. His Peter-Tingle was quiet so they must truly be gone.

“He wanted to be with me,” said Peter. Mrs. Stark blinked at him, squinting as she took a moment to think.

“I don’t think he’s completely sane,” she said, eventually.

“Mr. Stark saw it first,” said Peter. She smiled.

“Tony _was_ always the smartest,” she said. “Now, come on. Morgan is waiting for us. She said something about making a fort. D'you know how to make one, Pete?”

“Boy, do I,” said Peter, grinning.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was a good read.


End file.
